


The Billboard Outside Hawkins, Indiana

by Mophys



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: (very) Mild Horror, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Billy Hargrove Is Bad at Feelings, Billy Hargrove Needs a Hug, Billy has powers, Characters to be added, Dreams and Nightmares, Explicit Language, Fix-It of Sorts, Flashbacks, Hopper is alive, Internalized Homophobia, Multi, Neil Hargrove is His Own Warning, POV Alternating, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Build, Smoking, Steve and Billy have some background together, Suicidal Thoughts, kinda crossover (but more like I just stole the name and a billboard thank you very much), some eery shit here and there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-01 10:23:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20256571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mophys/pseuds/Mophys
Summary: It is not that Neil Hargrove loved his son that much.It is not that he knew him that well, either.It is certainly not that he really cares now, at least he thinks so.But it is true that he is determined to find out what really killed his son.And he is not the only one seeking answers.orHow far can one go in order to find peace of mind? And we are not talking solely about Neil here.





	1. The door with the lock

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for clicking!
> 
> This story may turn out to be about many things (it is kind of an experiment now, really), but it definitely would not involve Neil Hargrove redemption and/or humanisation. The fact that he has a POV still leaves him a grade A asshole and abuser. 
> 
> It is not a crossover with "Three Billboards outside Ebbing, Missouri" either; in its normal sense, at least. I just rewatched it yesterday and though it would be cool to integrate one billboard instead of three and, partly, the message of the film.
> 
> Any kudos, comments and polite criticism/suggestions will be appreciated;) I do apologise in advance about any mistakes in tenses, awkward phrasings and typos.

There is still a lock on a white, a bit worn out door, it did not go anywhere. At about just the right height, though that is the case for a man who is taller than the lad who inhabited the room. It is gleaming silvery, reflecting flickers of the evening light. It was not there initially, what dumbass would put a lock where it currently is, not on the room’s side of the door, but facing the corridor when the door slams shut.

The door does not slam anymore, there is no need to open it in the first place, really. So it stays closed on most occasions.

It did not happen that often, but once in a while he would lock his son up, leave him without dinner and without permission to go out, taking his car keys in case he planned on sneaking out through the window, all this to remind him of a lesson that should have long been memorized by heart. Respect and responsibility. Respect for him and Susan, responsibility for Maxine and for certain actions that have certain consequences (why did they move to Hawkins, Indiana in the first place?). He is a man of order, Neil Hargrove, and he wants - wanted - his son to be the same.

He is not an academic, however, never desired to be one, he has more important business to attend to, so that results in him never dwelling on such things as, say, the meaning of the word «order». Still, even though he does not give it any thought, this noun certainly means more to him rather than justthings being in order, no messy surroundings and everything being done on time. Order also means correct behavior, when one does what is expected of them. His son had a problem with that.

He could not even die properly, orderly. Like a normal person would, although people should not be dying so young. That’s not orderly, either. Instead he had to get tangled into some mess, something Neil Hargrove does not even have a word for. What has happened is outside his order zone. It was just a fire at the mall, a big fire, some sort of accident, but what is with all the missing people? Bullshit, that’s what he told the police. Bullshit, it was not just some bloody fire from the petards which some kids decided to blast in the mall. He saw the government officials. You are in distress, they answered, we are sorry for your loss.

What did he lose?

The lock has no use anymore, he suddenly realises. There is nobody, nothing to lock up apart from memories, old and recent, dating to the times which he would rather erase from his mind. They can throw away all the empty beer cans, they’ve already done that. They can pack up all of the records that seem to infest every corner and niche of a not-so-big bedroom, box ticked. Where would they go? Neil Hargrove does not want to sell them, weirdly enough, although he thinks his son’s music taste was foul. Empty the ash tray, chuck away the smokes - where did the boy even get the money from to stock up like it was near the end of the world? Neil Hargrove smokes, too, but for some reason he couldn’t just take these particular cigarettes. Probably because they belong to a dead person. Neil Hargrove is not a superstitious man. There is just something about dead people’s possessions that keeps everybody else away. It is said that one cannot take anything material to the grave. Looks like even with this, his son managed to do everything his way.

He has entered the room with the outside lock just once since July 4th, 1985, only to open the nightstand drawer and stumble upon a bunch of porn magazines and something that suspiciously resembled a joint. He cursed, loudly, savouring every word, like his son was alive and present, and shut it with a loud thud. Back then the room still smelled like him, alcohol, sweat, old sex, that fucking hairspray that only faggots use, and cheap cologne, the smell of which has always driven Neil mad. Obeying a sudden surge of anger, he rushed to the table with a mirror on it, where he knew the boy kept all those beauty products that were so dear to him, grabbed the bottle of cologne and threw it into the wall, as hard as he could. It shattered, glass bursting everywhere with hysterical tinkling, heavy stench of perfume filling the room. He left, then, having opened all of the windows and forcefully closing the door behind him, pretending that he simply was angry at something stupid the boy had done yet again. 

He never entered afterwards, although he still had to walk past this room each day because it was _a part of his house_. Sometimes the door would be left opened, wide or a bit, and then Neil Hargrove would notice Maxine sitting on the bed, her face away from the entrance, posture stiff. Each time he would yell, from the depths of the house, which was now much quieter, to shut the damn door and never open it again for good.

Today Neil Hargrove is inside again, _almost_ inside, he decides to stop on the doorstep. The room smells empty, and the faint scent lingering in the air is not enough to anger or even irritate him. It is _almost_ nothing, and reminds him of nothing, too. He likes that, _almost_. The room is filled with light, it always is in the evenings, he suddenly thinks, and there is dust floating in the air, so much dust. Now the room is liveless, it could have passed as a guest room. Just needs a cleanup, and there still might be clothes in the closet.

Whatever was in this bedroom before is gone.

He enters, walks to the nightstand, puts the Camaro keys down. It has been towed to the Hargrove’s garage, but looks largely beyond repair, at least for the money that they have. Would have been cheaper to buy a new one, not that there is any need now. The best idea is to sell it, its scrap metal now anyways, but Maxine seems to have taken fancy in the broken car, too. Susan does not mind.

He does not mind either, it feels like. 

Back in California the boy seemed to like surfing much more rather than gathering speeding tickets. Or that’s what Neil thinks it was like back in California. They definitely sold the surfboard, he sold it himself, before they moved to Hawkins, Indiana. It was the only time the boy lashed out at him, trying to hit him somewhere, anywhere.

Neil Hargrove made sure that his son would never have the audacity to try that trick again.

He walks out, not bothering to close the door, and heads down to the living room. It's been a long day. There is beer and a baseball game on in ten minutes.

He’s been drinkingmore, recently, and his interest in baseball has peaked.

The lock indeed has no use anymore.

Neil Hargrove sometimes called his son useless. 


	2. Pick your poison

«Hello, pretty boy.»

If Steve hadn’t know better he would have decided that Billy Hargrove in front of him is real, of flesh and bone and blood pumping through his veins. Breathing. But it has been three months and he looks the same as on the night of July, 4.

He is standing, hands in pockets, all relaxed and casual, at the foot of Steve’s bed sporting his tight high-waisted jeans; there are boots on his feet, presumably (because Steve, from where he is splayed on his bed, cannot see anything below Billy’s hips), and his curls are a mess. Some of them are sticking to Billy’s forehead. The white tank top is not really white, black blood is seeping through, and in some places the fabric is torn. Billy is smiling at him, same black blood smidging/covering his teeth. His smile - a genuine one, not his usual scowl - is sad and gentle at the same time. Understanding, too, somehow.

Steve finds it unsettling. He never saw Billy Hargrove smile like that. Once doesn’t count, does it? And it wasn’t gentle anyways, just sad. Steve never discovered why. There were certain assumptions.

It’s a ghost, then, of Billy, he decides detachedly, because he knows for sure that only ghosts never change their appearance. Ghosts are stagnant. They look exactly like they did on their deathbed. Or deathfloor. Or like they looked on some special occasion or whatever. It is something memorable, anyways, their appearence (to them or to the person who sees them, though, Steve muses), and they are stuck with it forever. That is the main property of a ghost, to get stuck - in certain clothes, certain age and certain places. If Billy was alive then he would have shown up wearing something different, would have at least changed the tank top. He knew how to take care of himself, when he wanted to.

This Billy has the old earring, a long dangling spike that he used to wear before. This is wrong, too.

Steve wishes he could vouch that a non-ghostly Billy would not show up at such an ungodly hour, but he cannot. However, real Billy was polite enough to at least knock. Happened a few times.

It is some weird-ass sort of sleep paralysis. Steve had never had one, but isn’t there a first time for everything?

«You probably should be surprised a bit more, amigo.» The ghost accuses him. There is nothing weird about the voice, it sounds casual.

«Yeah… And you probably should be more dead than you are now. Amigo.» Steve murmurs, without malice. The words come out in a mere whisper, tired.

The ghost does not bother to answer, eyeing him inquisitively.

It is not sleep paralysis because, Steve realises, he can move. If so, then he can touch Billy’s face, or arm. Take his hand and feel for himself whether his flesh is warm or cold. Steve remembers himself standing over Billy in the Starcourt Mall, still wearing his stupid sailor uniform and swaying slightly because of the shit he’s been injected with, feeling lost, confused and somewhat empty. It’s been a long time by now, but emptyness did not leave anywhere. He also remembers, vividly, kneeling down and clumsily grabbing the other boy’s hand. It was cold and clammy; the Mind Flayer liked things cold, and so did death.

Steve props himself up against the pillows, leans forward. Slowly gets out of bed - one foot on the floor, then another - and, almost sheepishly, makes a few uneven steps towards Billy. He knows this Billy is not real.

«I miss Billy, but you ain’t him.» He confesses quetly, reaching out a hand to gently caress a black scar on Billy’s - ghost’s - cheeckbone. He thinks, longing, of all those times that could have been. Once Billy casually mentioned that he wouldn’t mind showing Steve around San Diego. They couldn’t possibly cover all of Cali in one go, he said. _So there would have been more than one go._ He was drunk, they both were, and they were not friends, but somehow it mattered and carried more weight than any other word transaction they’ve had so far. He yearns to go back in time. It’s unfair, a childish though makes room in Steve’s head.

As if understanding and accepting, the ghost nods, staring at him wistfully.Considering something, maybe. Hell knows what ghosts really can do.

«Pick your poison, princess.» It finally says, monotone, and in the next moment dissolves into dust, leaving Steve alone in an empty room with an arm outsretched to nothing.

***

«Pickyour poison, princess.» That was the very first thing that Steve had heard from Hargrove some time after the incident (let’s settle on something neutral, shall we?) at the Byers’ house. Some time had actually meant several months in their case, not that Steve minded. He was not particularly thrilled at the idea of meeting with Billy Hargrove face to face again.Did not like the prick, and did feel - especiallywhen it came to his face and a cracked eye socket , - the enmity was most likely mutual. 

But there he was, at some party (Steve even had no idea who threw it, he just knew the place and that everybody was welcome), keeping Billy Hargrove company while he was busy emptying his stomach into a huge trash can. Steve was standing patiently nearby, at a polite distance, clutching Billy’s bottle of whiskey. He was wandering, idly, thoughts colliding in his drunken mind, how did they manage to end up together and whether the keg stand, if there was one, lasted a bit too long for the liking of Billy’s stomach, or the dude should stop the practice of chugging every bottle that he lays his eyes upon.

It was hard, thinking, given that he didn’t have a single idea about how they wound up near the trash can.

«Done?» Steve inquered when Billy spat thickly into the can.

Billy nodded, turning around, eyes clearer than before. Together, they silently walked - stumbled - to the porch and occupied the top stairs. It seemed like the whole house vibrated with each blast or music - it really did. Everybody was enjoying freedom from whatever they wanted to break free. 

«Can I bum one smoke from you?» Steve asked. He did not smoke, not really, but tonight he craved it.

Didn’t seem like Hargrove was up to any fighting today. Steve decided it wouldn’t harm to resume calling him Billy for the rest of the night, then.

Said Billy nodded, slid out of his leather jacket and fished two packs out of the pocket. Different brands, like there is any difference to Steve.

«Pick your poison, princess.» He chuckled, smirking.

Steve pointed at the the one on the left. They exchanged - Billy lit the cig and gave it to Steve, who returned him the bottle, which Billy immediately hugged, an endearing childish gesture.

«You’re not gonna smoke?»

«Nah,» Billy shook his head, glancing away. He looked strangely wound up.

Minutes, which seemed like hours, passed in silence between the two. When Steve was done, he flicked what was left off the porch and turned around to see Billy staring at him, some sort of impatience in his eyes. Weird.

«Hey,» he managed.

«I was not fighting you,» Billy mumbled awkwardly, turning away from Steve and staring at the bottle of whiskey he’s been nursing with such strain that Steve almost believed it held some sort of big important secret that could only be discovered by burning a hole in the bottle with one’s gaze.

There we go… The hell is that supposed to mean? Billy was many unpleasant things (putting it mildly), but stupid was not one of them. He did not particularly like history, yes, although he did put effort into stayingin teacher’s good graces by being his usual charming self, but apart from that he was a surprisingly bright and dedicated student for a guy of his tendencies and overall image he so desperately tried to convey.

«Your point?..» Steve pushed. They’ll talk about it, if that’s what Billy wants. But it has kinda been a long time since the face punching happened. «Do you have, uh, problems with eyesight?»

«Are you really that dumb or you just suck at making jokes?» Billy made a face. «Or both? I guess one follows from the other.»

Well, that was a low blow.

«No, but with the vagueness of your statement this is the only realistic implication I can think of.» Steve bit back. «Or you were high and hallucinating?» He added, mimicking Billy’s mocking tone.

«Jesus, Harrington, can you not ruin shit? I had a run in with someone, got pissed off and wound up, and there you were lying about the whereabouts of my stepsister. I lost my shit, okay? Like, it was the last straw.»

Sо Steve is the one ruining shit now?

«Well, and what is it that you want from me? I don’t care, Hargrove. You cannot walk around treating the whole world as you punch bag because some chick blew you off. Quit looking for circumsrances that excuse your attitude.»

«It was not a chick.» Billy’s shoulders have defensively tensed up at the remark. Steve frowned, but said:

«As I said, I don’t care. What I care about is that you threatened a kid, man.»

Hargrove muttered something under his breath and rolled his eyes. Turned his face to Steve, lips pursed into a thin bloodless line.

«I wanted to apologise.» He spat.

«Excuse me?»

«I said, I wanted to apologise.» patiently explained Billy; this was exactly the same tone a cashier at the till would use while explaining to a kid that they cannot come back tomorrow to pay for the gum they got today. «Take it or leave it, I’m not beggin’ for your forgiveness for the rest of the night.»

Steve quirked his eyebrow and stretched his legs.

«How can you, being the one who fucked up, still manage to be so bossy and bargain about how fast I should forgive you?»

Not that Steve didn’t want to forgive Billy at all… He was not one of those people to hold grudges for a long time; in the end of the day, worse fights happened between lesser enemies. However, he could not do this forgiveness thing straightaway either.

Catching a glimpse of disappointment and sudden desperation in the other boy’s eyes, Steve opened his mouth to add that he’d rather forgive him than not if he promises to be decent, which on its own seemed more made-up than Dungeons and Dragons, but Billy was quicker. He’s always been a bit quicker than Steve.

«You know what? Fuck off!» Frustrated, he slammed his fist on the porch, startling his unfortunate companion, and winced, cursing softly under his breath. With one push of his free hand he got up and forcefully swung the jacket over his shoulder. The shirt got untucked from his jeans, and Steve caught a small glimpse of something that looked, from where he sat, either like a weird birthmark of a huge bruise.

Billy was already making his way through the driveway, stumbling and sniffling angrily.

«For fuck’s sake! What’s with the mood swings!» Steve scrambled to his feet and jumped from the light-filled porch into wet grass, leaves and darkness, trotting away from music and teenagers raging inside the house after Billy, who was by now stomping towards what unmistakably looked like his car.

«Man, you really should learn how to take things easier!..»

Billy whipped around so fast that Steve almost ran into him.

«I’ve taken too many things easier!» he yelled right in Steve’s face, eyes gleaming wetly in the darkness. Steve didn’t see very well, but he could swear Hargrove’s ears were burning red. His chin was trembling and Billy’s whole demeanor was radiating anger. «Why the fuck…»

He did not finish the sentence, grabbing the keys from the pocket, stuck them viciously in the lock, jerked the door and hopped into the driver’s seat, shutting it with a loud ‘clanck’ before Steve could say anything. The Camaro came to life, roaring, its headlights piercing the night like bright yellow eyes.

Steve hesitantly tapped on the driver’s window, taken aback by Billy’s outburst, only to be flipped off.

«Really, man?» He mouthed, raising his arms and letting them drop to his sides.

Billy waved him off, again facing away from Steve, engaged the reverse gear and the Camaro, screeching, glided away from the driveway.

***

Steve awakes shivering and chocking on his breath, with t-shirt drenched in cold sweat. He is feeling weak, the flu king of weakness, and dizzy. Trying to even out his breath, he peeres out of the window. It is late night or early dawn, just barely, it’s hard to distinguish this kind of things in autumn, they’re less defined than in summertime, all mingling together. The sky is turning into a lighter shade of still dark blue, or not. It might be the town lights or something.

Somewhere in the distance, the car is speeding, roaring echo dissolving in the cold, crisp air.

Steve exhales, not realising how long he’s been holding his breath for, and crawls out of bed, blanket wrapped around his shoulders protectively. Opens the door, footsteps soft, walks down the stairs and crosses the ever-empty house to open the terrace door.

For a moment he expects the pool to not be there but it is, unchanged. The pool, this goddamn pool in which Barb died and Billy had a swim or two, is the only thing that was unaffected by all of the shit occurring in Hawkins.

Steve limps to the nearest lounger and flops onto it, curls into himself, pulling knees as close as he can to his chest. He wraps the blanket tighter around his frame and listens to the rustling of trees and murmurs of the forest.

It will be easier once morning comes. Somehow, in the daytime he is feeling almost happy.

Time does not heal, it’s a big ol’ fucking lie people keep telling themselves in order to have some semblance of comfort. What time really does is bring a semblance or normality. It was normal for Steve to see Billy alive not so long ago. In some time, it will be normal to percieve Billy as a dead person. We, homo sapiens, get used to circumstances quickly. Billy’s name will become a hollow echo fromthe past, and Steve Harrington will carry on, growing older and older with each passing year, while Billy Hargrove will always be eighteen, with wild curly hair, wearing a bloodied tank top and tight jeans.

As much as Steve stubbornly resents it, the life in Hawkins goes on.

Life does not wait, or stop. It does not care for the whims of bereaved and grieving.

Steve Harrington is left to relish the memories.

***

«Stop here, okay? I’ll quickly buy stuff and we’ll go.»

«Sure thing.» Steve parks his car near the grocery store at which Robin has pointed and turns the engine off. He’s largely gotten rid of the emptiness lingering from the restless night. The knot in his chest has dissolved, but there is still some aftertaste.Thankfully, Robin is there to distarct him. He’s grateful for that.

There are not many people around, it’s Monday morning, nor there is anything eye-catching about the street they’re on apart from the office, it seems, of some small advertising company. Steve cannot recall whether he’s ever heard anything about it. Wasn’t paying attention, most likely, small businesses like that are all around the place.

There is a man on the other side of the street, marching impatiently and somewhat stiffly like he is determined to give somebody a good bashing. That walk Steve recalls from somewhere.

The man turns to cross the road, clearly heading to the advertisement office, and Steve, catching the look of his profile, recognises Neil Hargrove.

By now he’s seen Billy’s dad quite a few times, when he was picking Max up to go somewhere - he’s volunteered for that courtesy himself. The first time he shook hands with this ever-somber man, he got the impression Mr. Hargrove was hiding something.

«Steve, what’s wrong?» Robin touches his shoulder, tearing him out from the haze.

He blinks and rubs his eyes. It wouldn’t do, staring like that.

«There is something fishy about the man, you know? I cannot explain, he looks like a creep.» Steve shrugs and cranes his neck to get a better look at where Neil Hargrove is going. Without getting noticed, preferably.

«What on Earth do you mean? Who, that one?.. Like, creep in the sense…» she gives Steve _that_ look and tries to wiggle her eyebrows as if the subject she is implying is shamefully obvious and, at the same time, not to be discussed on the street. This is how a quiet talk about an open secret starts, one of a nasty, lewd kind. _‘You know that mister over there likes teenage girls?’_ kind of. Ugh.

«Jesus, Robin, no!»

«I didn’t even say anything! What did you think of, dingus? Huh?» she elbowes him and winks, laughing lightly. 

«Nothing,» he grumbles. «I’m being serious, you know. I don’t like him. It’s Billy’s dad, you’ve seen him once when we were picking Max up. He is too quiet and too polite and too nice in public to actually own any of those qualities. How do they say…» Steve pinches the bridge of his nose, in an attempt to drag stubborn words out of that sorry head of his. «Something about water.»

«Still waters run deep?» Robin suggests.

In vain, by the looks of it. 

«Yeah, that one.»

«Since when do you spy on him anyways? Decided to immerse yourself back in childhood? I enjoyed spying onpeople when I was a little kid, though it was really cool.» Robin scoots closer to Steve, leaning onto his shoulder, and also starts staring. «Do you know that people can feel when they are being watched? It’s called gaze perception.» She adds, whispering with exhaggerated eeriness.

«Then why are you looking, too? Sit back, or he’ll notice! I’m already being obvious enough. And I am not planning to immerse myself back into my childhood, thank you very much!» Steve desperately tries to push Robin off while keeping his eyes locked on Hargrove’s dad. He manages to bang the center of the steering wheel with his elbow in the process, extracting a loud honk, which sent both him and Robin jolting and going still while Neil Hargrove’s head snaps back and his cold indifferent gaze meets Steve’s. Steve finds himself smiling like an idiot.

«Shit, he noticed! Robin!» He manages through gritted teeth, keeping the dumbest look that he’s ever been capable of pulling off. Can’t influence the situation, my bad!

«Duh, Captain Obvious!» Robin elbows him again and tries to jockingly strangle him. «Too bad he cannot say anything, we are just two silly teenagers fooling around!» She balls her hand into a fist and starts rubbing excitedly at the back of Steve’s head. «Steve ‘The Dingus’ Harrington! First of his name!»

«Let go!» Steve cannot help but laugh, squirming weakly. It does the job, though - Neil Hargrove raises his eyebrows at such public indecencyand, looking infinitely offended, turns around and resumes walking to the advertisement office.

They both wait until the door closes behind him.

«Geez, that man is emotionally constipated! He looked pissed. No, actually; like there was real shit right under his nose.»»

«Well, yeah. Kinda.» Not that Steve wants to dispute such allegations. Robin has a point. «And it was ‘The Hair’, Buckley.»

«Yeah, and now it is ‘The Dingus’. Change of image. Your hair isn’t that handsome today.» Robin finally settles back - flops - onto the passenger seat, smiling triumphantly.

«I did not sleep that well.»Steve shrugged.«Don’t remember the last time I slept well, actually.»

Robin knows. There is a lot she knows.

«I’m sorry.» She quietly says.

«It’s alright. Just, I’ve been thinking. A lot. About Billy.» They did not discuss this particular topic much, but again, Robin knew. She did not need long speeches of explanations to understand. «His dad… He does not look like a compassionate person. Whatever,» Steve runs fingers through his hair. «I should already let it all go, it’s stupid. Makin’ shit up.»

He hides his face in his hands and lets out a sigh.

«I believe you, dingus.» Robin says gently after a long moment of silence. She’s looking at the doors of the advertisement office.

«What?»

«About Billy’s dad. I believe you. I don’t think you are making this up.»

«And what would make you think that?»

«As I said, you have other qualities. You’re good with people, Steve.» Robin leans again her seat and looks him in the eye. «You’re good when dealing with people, you can read most of them like an open book. You’re likeable and trustworthy, and that,» She raises a finger.

«That takes much more than everybody normally thinks.»


End file.
